


Seven Minutes in Heaven

by ScarletTyler



Series: What If [4]
Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Dry Humping, M/M, Making Out, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletTyler/pseuds/ScarletTyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>No</em>, Aidan. It means that I'm way too old to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with any of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Minutes in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [天堂七分钟](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234694) by [AliceonceinNeverland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceonceinNeverland/pseuds/AliceonceinNeverland)



"Today, I've finalized the budget for the Anderson project, presented my quarterly projections to the board, _and_ attended a meeting about the recurring complaints of our Swedish clients. Do you know what that means?"

"That your job is boring as hell?"

" _No_ , Aidan." Richard fights the urge to roll his eyes at his co-worker-turned-friend. "It means that I'm way too old to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with any of you."

"C'mon, Richard. I know you're a super serious adult now, but wait til you hear who've already said yes."

"If Orlando's coming, I'm not going," Richard says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He _showed_ me his so-called 'bottle trick' the last time I went, and I'm not—"

"That's too bad, then. He's tagging along a certain American to my party." Aidan quirks an eyebrow and folds his arms in front of his chest, tapping his foot on the carpeted floor as if challenging Richard's well-known stubbornness.  
  
Only one person crosses Richard's mind upon hearing this new bit of information. "You mean…"

"Yep." A triumphant grin is starting to curl up on Aidan's face, sensing that he is only a few choice words away from getting a 'yes' from his friend.

There's plenty of reasons for Richard to remain steadfast in his decision to not come to the stupid party, but he'd be a fool to let this opportunity pass by. Besides, he needs to unwind after the week he's had. A drink or two would be fine, he concludes after a few more moments of weighing the pros and cons.

"You still there, Richard? Or has your robot brain short-circuited already?"

Richard tries to act nonchalant, shutting down his laptop as he evens out his breathing. "Do I have to bring anything?"

"Well, since you asked…"

(Aidan is down to his fourth request when Richard realizes that he really shouldn't have asked.)

 

* * *

  

Whatever fate has up its sleeve for the evening, it has started things off being either hilarious or merciful. Richard figures that it's actually a mixture of both after finding himself in the closet with Graham, the result of the first spin for the night. 

"How long have we been mates?" 

Shrugging his shoulders, Richard turns to Graham with furrowed eyebrows. "Uh, not sure. . . more than 10 years, I think."

"Right," Graham confirms with a brief nod of his head. "And how many times have we snogged in those 10 years?"

"Never had _and_ never will," Richard answers, understanding completely where his best mate is heading with his questions.

"Exactly." 

Richard chuckles at the stony demeanor of the Scotsman beside him. "By the way, how d'you get roped into this?"

"Booze, mostly. I was promised whisky, but so far, all I've drunk is some piss water pretending to be a lager," Graham spits, face scrunching up in distaste. "You?"

The name that got him here is on the tip of Richard's tongue, but he would rather not reveal, just yet, his agenda for tonight—not even to his best mate. Fidgeting with the sleeves of the large blue coat hanging in between them, he replies in a measured tone, "Same as you." 

"Ah, very well then. If they don't bring out the good shit by 10," Graham offers with a mischievous glint in his eyes, though his voice remains gruff as ever, "I'll put Aidan on a chokehold, while you search for the whisky with Martin."

Shoulders rocking with stifled laughter, Richard pictures in his head how the scene would actually play out, if it ever comes to that. "You've got yourself a deal."

 

* * *

  

It is Cate who really has this game all figured out. (Or rather, she's one of the few people here who has life all figured out—raising her bright children with the love of her life in a beautiful house out in the suburbs). Her strategy has been to get everybody in line before the games even started, and well, after that, everything is just a snap for her. 

For Cate's first spin, the bottle points to Hugo from Accounting, and her uncontrollable laughter is all it takes for everyone to know that she is going to re-spin. 

On her second go, the bottle points to Orlando, and it only takes her one pointed look for the younger man to return the bottle to her. _And_ apologize, much to Richard's amusement.

Third time's the charm, apparently, as the bottle finally points to Ian. Whatever happened in that closet, the older man tries to propose to her four different times throughout the rest of the night, and for every single time that he does, Cate just gives him a tight-lipped smile and tells him to come back with a diamond ring. (It's all in jest, everybody knows, but Richard can't help but imagine what a powerful couple these two could've been.)

 

* * *

 

Sitting down on a circle around the coffee table, Richard tries his hardest to avoid sharing so much as a glance with Lee Pace. He puts all the blame to his traitorous mind because every time he catches a glimpse of that mountain of a man, Richard finds himself being swayed into re-living his fantasies about his _friend_ that he dares not to share with anyone else.

Fantasies about biting that bottom lip—swollen and pliant after a thorough and fervent kiss.

Fantasies about weaving his fingers into Lee's silky hair, pulling slightly until he hears the man moan out his name.

Fantasies about being wrapped in a warm embrace by those long, toned arms, their chests pressed against each other's.

(Cheeks heating up from such _colorful_ thoughts, Richard takes a long, hard drink of his beer.)

 

His mature, professional image aside, Richard has actual, _valid_ reasons for wanting to play tonight.

Reasons like how Lee is single now.

And how Richard is single now as well. 

And how neither of their relationships was going anywhere anyway.

Because Richard's in love with Lee, and well, Carter has always been a big twat.

 

* * *

  

Evangeline spins and gets Aidan, who practically bounces on his way to the closet. When the timer goes off, the young man emerges, slack-jawed and with a dazed look on his eyes, while Evangeline sports what seems to be a smug grin on her pink-stained face. 

Observing them from his seat, a niggling voice inside Richard's head tells him that perhaps he is not the only one who's been hoping to snog his _crush_ tonight. (Crush sounds so wrong to his ears, but he can't find a better word for his non-existent relationship with Lee. Well, they've been friends for a while now—which is fine and brilliant, really—but that's not what Richard _only_ wants for them to be.)

 

* * *

  

Luke takes his turn and lands on Richard.

For the next seven minutes, Richard spins his consciousness off into another universe. When it's over, his chin is sore and the inside of his mouth tastes of oranges for some reason. Struggling to maintain a straight face, he sets a reminder on his mobile to throw out the jar of marmalade in his fridge when he gets home.

Never again.

 

* * *

 

When it is Lee's turn to spin, Richard holds his breath and tries to keep his cool. He fails—in the most subtle way, he believes—when he gives himself hiccups instead. Only Aidan seems to notice his odd behavior, eyeing him sideways before snickering to his drink.

The bottle spins and spins and spins, only to stop and point at Orlando fucking Bloom.

Seven minutes of hell follow, and when the pair comes back out, they have big matching grins plastered on their faces as they demonstrate a frighteningly elaborate new handshake.

(Of course, the man he's in love with is best mates with the most insufferable person he has ever known. The cruel joke is not lost on Richard.) 

 

* * *

 

It goes on and on and on until it seems like Richard has kissed everyone at the party _except Lee_.

Their boss, Peter, drops by for a few minutes, and Richard even manages to kiss him. (On the cheek and outside of the closet because everyone agrees that nobody should ever make out with the big boss.)

It is almost as if fate itself is toying with him, conspiring with everything to make Richard wait and suffer. Three weeks ago, a barista forgot to charge him for a blueberry scone with his tea. Richard knew _and_ didn't say a thing. 

If this is retribution for that blueberry scone, then Richard would gladly head to the café right now and own up to his wrongdoing _._ (It's too late for that now, but still, he'll try anything at this point.)

  

* * *

  

By the time the bottle is put away for good, there are several more bottles littering around the flat. Bottles that used to be full are now empty. Friends that used to be sober are now drunk and silly.

Except for Richard.

And Lee.

Richard is not entirely certain of the American's reasons, but his own were quite practical.

'Don't want a hangover next morning.' 

'Don't want to throw up in this flat, of all places.'

'Don't want to be too drunk to remember if I finally kissed Lee.'

(Truth be told, it's the last one that really matters since it's Friday night, and there's actually no work that needs to be done over the weekend.)

  

* * *

  

Standing alone on the tiny balcony, Richard raises an eyebrow at Lee, who joins him while holding a bottle of Heineken.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?" Richard asks, nodding at the bottle. It is still capped, and he spares a second trying to remember if Heineken has a twist-off cap or not. There is no bottle opener in sight, but Lee is the type of bloke who could probably open it with just his bare hands and some flat surface.

Lee shrugs his shoulders, shifting from one foot to the other. "More like. . . If you can't beat 'em, cheat."

"What?"

With a deep breath, Lee holds up the bottle in one hand and opens his other hand, palm up. "Uhmm. . . Please tell me, alright? If you don't wanna play, please tell me."

"Lee, what—"

Before Richard can clarify whatever's happening right now, Lee places the bottle sideways on his open palm, the fingers of his free hand gripping it like— _oh, god_.

Like he's going to spin it. 

The balcony is dark and quiet and chilly, but it doesn't feel like that at all. Richard doesn't feel that. He feels light and nervous and excited. He feels terrified that he's misreading this, and yet somehow terrified that he isn't as well.

"Richard. . ." Lee says softly, locking gazes with him for the first time tonight. ". . . is this okay?"

Words get lodged in Richard's throat, so he just nods his head in response. The movement feels slow and disjointed, fractured by adrenaline and disbelief over this sudden turn of events.

(This is happening. This is _really_ happening.)

"Let's—let's play," Richard manages to croak out after a brief moment of silence.

Lee nods back—in the same shaky way Richard had done before—and begins to gently turn the bottle on his palm.

Richard watches, enthralled at the way the liquid sloshes inside the glass, the way Lee's fingers grip the label—so long and graceful and just. . . god, just magnificent, perfect fingers.

Everything smells cold despite the fact that spring is almost coming to an end in a week or so.  However, when he leans in closer, Richard can smell _him_. Lee smells like he always does, spicy, warm and sweet. The same scent that lingers on Richard's sleeves when they crowd up against each other at the elevator. The same scent that Richard had found himself engulfed in when Peter introduced them a few years ago, only to be replaced by a sinking feeling deep in his stomach when he first learned that Lee had a boyfriend.

But, Lee doesn't have one anymore—neither does Richard—and the bottle keeps turning and turning and turning towards him. The party inside sounds muted and the drumming inside Richard's chest drowns out everything else when, finally, the cap is pointing straight at him.

Richard nods again, more for himself than anything. (This is real. This is happening. Yes, yes, _yes._ ) His reaction makes Lee smile—a soft, bashful smile that crinkles his eyes and makes Richard feel all fluttery inside. Lee is staring at him, _only_ at him. Finally.

With the tips of his fingers numb from excitement, Richard picks up the bottle from Lee's hand and sets it down on the concrete railing of the balcony.

"Told Aidan to get a small table and some chairs, y'know, for the summer," Lee says, his voice soft as if trying to maintain the blanket of intimacy that they have somehow draped around themselves. 

Richard has been to romantic restaurants and dimly lit theaters, on beautiful picnics and thoughtful adventures around town, but somehow, standing on Aidan's shitty balcony, under a moon that he can't even properly see from all the clouds in the sky, nothing else has felt more. . . right. (God, he's hopeless.) He breathes out a shaky laugh and adds, "We can have a grill party or something like that."

"Yeah," Lee confirms. "That, and we can also lose our shirts and get a nice tan while we're at it."

Richard laughs again, trying to pretend that they're just having a conversation, that they're not both slowly edging closer to one another. "I'm afraid my skin is impervious to any means of tanning." 

"Maybe you're just not exposed enough," Lee says, shifting a step that brings him near enough that Richard can literally feel him, the solid warmth of the man's broad chest pressing up against him.

"Or maybe you can show me how to do it properly," Richard adds, his words tripping out from his mouth in the same way his fingers are trailing up Lee's arm. The man has lost his sweater somewhere in the flat and now stands before Richard in just his white shirt that feels snug, but looks worn from repeated usage. 

Lee is just mumbling now, distracted, as Richard continues his trek upwards. Eventually, Richard reaches the back of Lee's neck and there he strokes the soft hair with his fingers while Lee gently wraps his arms around Richard's waist.

"Lee. . ."

The American cuts himself off, listening, waiting. 

Richard tips his head toward the bottle. "Seven minutes?" he asks, their lips hovering each other's.

"I was thinking of something a lot longer," Lee counters, murmuring his words in the tiny space between them. 

"Hmmm…" Richard can't resist it anymore so he brushes a fleeting kiss on Lee's lips. "How much longer?"

Lee returns the kiss, soft and warm, and the edges of his lips curl up in a smile again. "Somewhere between seven minutes and forever?"

"So, eight minutes, then?"

Giggling, Lee nips at his lips for his cheekiness. "Yes, Richard. Eight minutes." Nudging his nose against Richard's, Lee kisses him properly, molding themselves together in a slow, teasing manner.

They snog like that for a moment, angling and re-angling, but Richard has waited too long to be coy about this. So, he opens his mouth and slips his tongue out to lick at the man's bottom lip.

Lee responds immediately, deepening the kiss, stroking his tongue into Richard's mouth in a hot caress, so confident that it makes Richard's stomach give a little flip. Whatever hesitancy they've had, whatever banter and flirting had led them here, all of them are gone now. They all left Richard with Lee's tongue in his mouth, his fingers pressing into the man's cheeks to keep him close.

A few moments later, one of Richard's hands find its way to Lee's hair, and he uses this to angle their kiss by pulling gently, but hard enough to coax a response from Lee. As he continues to explore the silky strands of hair between his fingers, Lee makes a _noise_ , a pleased, sexy little rumble somewhere in his chest or in his throat, and _oh god_ , the sound travels downward, making Richard strain a little harder inside his pants.

It's like Lee can sense it as he pushes Richard against the low wall surrounding the balcony, and arches into him, their bodies pressed together, all heat and friction. It feels like Richard _is_ drunk, like the entire bloody world is drunk, all of it tilted on its axis as he thrusts back against Lee.

They are both hard, and god, _fuck_ , everything is _incredible_. Richard's body is straining to be closer to Lee, to be around him, against him, the smell of him and the heat of him and the feel of him when the man slots a leg between Richard's and pushes up.

Richard is grinding down against Lee's thigh before he can think any better of it, and Lee is so damn encouraging, helping him along, pulling away from his mouth to kiss his throat, nip his earlobe, suck and bite and lick at that spot at the base of his neck until he is squirming and groaning in Lee's arms. 

"I've always wanted this," Lee whispers to his ear as if sharing a secret. "Always. You feel so good, Richard. Please, don't fucking stop."  
  
Richard is trying hard, one hand gripping tightly the bend of Lee's shoulder, the other still knotted in the man's hair. His legs are tense, his entire body straining, trying to get closer, trying to line up the seams of his trousers, the friction against Lee's thigh, and it's all so close and—

"Fuck, Richard," Lee hisses, and that does it. Richard's body tightens, muscles contracting everywhere as he comes, his guttural moans muffled against Lee's shirt. Red-hot fire courses through his veins as he chokes for air, gasping and keening and writhing in Lee's arms.

"That was longer than seven minutes," Richard remarks when he finally drifts back down, the words mumbled into the warm skin of Lee's neck.

"I told you it would be." Lee has not dropped his arms and his fingers toy with the waistband of Richard's trousers.

Richard nips at Lee's throat, chasing the sting with his tongue, before cupping his hand in front of Lee's jeans. "Should we keep the clock running, then?"

"Oh, I'm all for overtimes. You won't ever hear a single complaint from me."

 

* * *

 

There's a bottle of Heineken in every place they've lived in for the rest of their forever. It's for spinning, not for drinking, and the rules involve nudity and all body parts, in all the hot and delicious ways they can possibly imagine.

(And yes, they both win every single game.)


End file.
